


Knock the Ice From My Bones

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Archie/Veronica, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Nudity, Polyamory, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: They find Cheryl sitting on the bank of Sweetwater River, bundled up in furs over her bright crimson dress.She’s shaking like a leaf. Whether it’s from the snow, falling from the sky like ashes from Thornhill that have long since been lost to the wind, or the metaphorical ashes of her life, it’s hard to say.Cheryl reaches out. Veronica and Archie reach back.





	Knock the Ice From My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the Riverdale fandom, but after catching up on the finale, this ot3 hit me like a brick to the face, and thus, this fic was born. 
> 
> Title taken from the song [All The King's Horses by Karmina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1j2LoW3P14) (which is an excellent Cheryl Blossom song, just FYI)
> 
> If you enjoy the fic, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and comments. It keeps us authors going!

They find Cheryl sitting on the bank of Sweetwater River, bundled up in furs over her bright crimson dress.

She’s shaking like a leaf. Whether it’s from the snow, falling from the sky like ashes from Thornhill that have long since been lost to the wind, or the metaphorical ashes of her life, it’s hard to say.

She’s on the banks, not in the water, and the text on Veronica’s phone is a _come get me_ , not a _goodbye_. While the situation is far from good, it’s certainly less bleak than it’s been before.

“Come on,” Veronica whispers, crouching down at Cheryl’s side and smoothing a gloved hand over her bright orange hair. “Let’s get you home.”

The cold is bone deep, and Cheryl’s fingers are nearly blue. Her legs, bare and damp in the snow, struggle to hold her weight, or maneuver the way she tells them. Archie is behind her in seconds, wrapping strong arms around her waist and helping her stand. He holds the embrace as they walk back to the car, Cheryl as awkward and clumsy on her feet as a newborn fawn. She chases Archie's warmth like air, burrowing into his open jacket, and he pulls it snug around them, shielding them from the bitter sting of the wind.

Veronica drives while Archie sits with Cheryl in the back seat, still hiding in his coat and hoarding the heat of his body. The radio is off. The only sounds that break the silence are the winter tires against the icy road and Cheryl’s teeth chattering.

When they get back to The Pembrooke, Veronica parks the car in one of the spaces reserved for her residence. She locks the doors with the fob and goes ahead to call for an elevator as Archie peels Cheryl out of her sopping coat and wraps her up in his own. The underground lot is cool and damp, and gooseflesh breaks out over Archie’s skin.  

They take the elevator up to Veronica’s floor, bypassing the lobby and Smithers’ quiet omnipresence. Veronica opens the apartment door quickly and quietly.

Cheryl is on autopilot. As Veronica kicks off her shoes, Achie kneels at Cheryl’s feet, helping her out of her ruined suede boots. His hands wrap like those of a giant around her slim ankles. Her bones are so delicate, her skin so pallid and chilled, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine her snapping under Archie’s touch if he weren’t so deliberate and gentle.

“Your dress is soaked,” Archie whispers.

Cheryl doesn’t answer.

“I’ll put you in something of mine,” Veronica says. The smile she offers is forced but pleasant nonetheless, a carefully cultivated Lodge family secret. Cheryl lets Veronica wrap an arm around her shoulders and guide her to her bedroom.

“Here,” Veronica offers, holding out a soft cotton t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants with a drawstring waist. “Red’s your colour, right?”

Cheryl takes the red sleep pants and the white cotton tee and stares at them blankly. She doesn’t move to undress, though she shakes like a leaf in her wet clothes, even with Archie’s jacket still on.

Veronica’s eyebrows crease. “Sweetie,” she says, soft and low, tucking Cheryl’s hair behind her ear to see more of her sallow face. She looks like she hasn’t eaten or slept in days. It’s only been three since Thornhill went up, and Veronica somehow doesn’t think her estimation is too far off base.

“Come on,” Veronica coaxes. She puts the pajamas down at the foot of her bed and takes Cheryl out of Archie’s coat. Cheryl’s white gossamer cardigan falls away with it, leaving her in a tight, sleeveless, velvet dress.

Veronica finds the zipper under Cheryl’s right arm and tugs it down, exposing bare, creamy flesh underneath. Veronica’s eyes linger on that patch of skin a breath longer than they should. Cheryl Blossom is beautiful, but she’s also broken, and now isn’t the time.

Veronica ignores the way Cheryl’s nipples pebble with cold. She ignores the how soft her skin is under Veronica’s hands and and how pliant she is when Veronica pushes her dress down her legs. She gets Cheryl into clean, dry clothes, ties the drawstring as tight as it will go around her hips, and finds her one of Archie's sweaters lying around for good measure.

Still, something isn’t quite right.

“Come here,” Veronica says, taking Cheryl by the hand and leading her to the vanity. She sits Cheryl down and pulls out a makeup wipe. “Your skin will thank me.”

Veronica starts with the mascara smeared under Cheryl’s eyes. She wipes down her cheeks following the lines of her tear tracks, pulling blush and bronzer and highlighter up as she goes. She wipes the foundation from Cheryl’s forehead as tender and delicate as her mother sometimes touches her forehead to take her temperature when she’s sick.

Cheryl’s eye makeup goes next, the shadow and the eyebrow cream and the false lashes. Veronica puts the lashes aside on the vanity and changes wipes three times. Once her eyelids are bare, Veronica tracks the path of every vein through Cheryl’s paper skin.

Last to come off is Cheryl’s lipstick. It smudges past her cupid’s bow and down onto her chin despite Veronica’s best efforts, a jarring streak of red against even starker white now that Cheryl’s foundation is gone. Veronica has to scrub to get the liquid lipstick off patches of dead, bitten skin. Cheryl's mouth stays stained cherry bright.

Veronica meticulously rubs moisturizer into Cheryl’s skin, then balm across her dry, cracking lips. She brushes out the tangles that formed in Cheryl’s hair when it dampened, and piles it into a bun at the top of her head to keep it off her neck.

“Better?” Veronica asks

Cheryl stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror. A tiny, genuine smile tugs at one corner of her mouth.

“Thank you, Veronica,” Cheryl whispers, her voice small and tired but painfully sincere.

Veronica crouches down in front of her and takes her hands. “Listen here, Cheryl Bombshell,” she says, just as quiet and just as raw. “Any time. You understand that?”

Abruptly, Cheryl nods.

By the time Veronica changes into a pair of pajamas -- more accurately, one of Archie’s shirts and a pair of too short silk bottoms -- and leads Cheryl back to the parlour, Archie is waiting by the fireplace with a blanket from the hall closet and three mugs of tea.

He’s made himself at home in Veronica’s apartment since his father’s been in the ICU. His mother seems content enough to let him stay, and Veronica’s own hardly notices him around. Veronica wonders, not for the first time, if her mother would miss a second red head sneaking in and out of her bedroom, or if things would be different if she was harbouring a Blossom under Hiram Lodge’s roof.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Archie asks as they approach, all sweet and earnest and curly damp hair, a bit like a cocker spaniel. He hands Cheryl a mug of tea, then Veronica another. Veronica takes an appreciative sip of honey chamomile and watches fondly as Archie’s nose crinkles while he pretends to like the beverage rather than be left out.

“Much better, Archiekins,” Cheryl replies. She puts on a smile that’s meant to speak of composure but falls flat under the weight of her tired eyes.

“Let’s sit down, honey,” Veronica says. She takes Cheryl by the elbow and sits her in front of the fire, a macabre parody of the last time they brought her home from Sweatwater River.

“Archiekins?” Veronica prompts glancing at him from over her shoulder, then shooting a pointed look at the blanket he brought out.

Archie flies into action, passing Veronica his mug to hold as he settles down on Cheryl’s other side and throws the blanket over all three of their shoulders. Cheryl shivers and leans into Archie’s side. Archie reacts on impulse, wrapping an arm around Cheryl’s body and hugging her close. He looks up at Veronica, then, with eyes that are half ashamed, half startled by his own actions.

Veronica offers a reassuring smile and passes back his tea.

After taking a few sips of her own, Veronica leans into Cheryl, too. She rests her head on Cheryl’s shoulder. Archie’s fingers trace the length of her side. It feels safe. It feels comfortable.

It feels warm.

“Everything in my life is falling apart,” Cheryl whispers suddenly, breaking the silence of the crackling fire and their steady breaths.

“This isn’t,” Veronica offers.

A tear beads down Cheryl’s cheek.

“We’ll be around, Cheryl,” Archie adds. “Me and Veronica. Whatever you need, we’ll be there.”

And then Cheryl sobs, loud and messy and ugly. She buries her face in Archie’s chest and clutches his shirt until her knuckles turn white. Archie holds her tight. Veronica curls against her side and strokes her hair with steady, gentle fingers, shushing and murmuring reassurances against her temple.

Cheryl cries until she tires herself out, bitter words about it not being fair and everyone hating her spilling from her mouth between heaving gasps from greedy lungs. When the tea’s gone cold and the well’s run dry, she’s listless between them, and Archie and Veronica share a heavy look.

“Take her to bed,” Veronica whispers, and Archie nods.

It takes some maneuvering between the two of them -- Cheryl is still awake but limp like a ragdoll -- to get her to her feet. When they do, it’s Archie’s strong arm around her waist that keeps her upright as they move down the hall to Veronica’s room.

Veronica ducks out to wash the mugs and return them to the cupboard, and when she returns, Archie is drawing back the covers as Cheryl leans heavily against his side.

“Scoot,” Veronica says, coaxing Cheryl forward with gentle hands. Cheryl settles into the middle of the mattress and Veronica climbs around her to curl up against her back. Archie stares down at them, and Veronica can read the hesitation on his face.

“It’s okay.”

It takes Archie another minute to come to a decision, but finally, he does, nodding and stripping out of his jeans and t-shirt, leaving them in a pile of the floor. He crawls into bed and settles against Cheryl’s side. Reflexively, Cheryl lays her head on his chest and twines their legs together.

Archie’s arm raised over Cheryl’s head finds Veronica, his hand stroking through her hair pleasantly. Veronica hums, contented and sleepy despite the last vestiges of the sun still clinging to the horizon.

“This is okay, right?” Archie checks, raising an eyebrow. Cheryl’s breath puffs deep and slow across his skin already.

Veronica smiles. “Why, Archiekins,” she sighs. “I think it’s wonderfully metropolitan of us, don’t you?”

The wattage of Archie’s shy, hopefully smile catches Veronica off guard. “Yeah,” he says, ducking his head sheepishly, gazing down at Cheryl sleeping in his arms, then back up at her. “It is kinda wonderful, isn’t it?”

They don’t need to say anything else after that. Veronica’s mother won’t get in until late, and she’ll either still be asleep, or not yet be awake when they come to the next morning. If there’s an emergency at the hospital, someone will call. If Penelope Blossom goes looking for her daughter, well, maybe it’s for the best she doesn’t find her.

As Veronica drifts off, the last thing she sees is two tufts of bright orange hair, and she spends the rest of the night dreaming of bonfires and sunsets and endless warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr.](https://www.asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com)  
> (I'm not very active in the Riverdale fandom, but it could be a time and a half anyway)


End file.
